Long Story Short
by creamtea-with-a-madman
Summary: A one night stand leaves Sherlock and John thinking about their relationship- but will it be for the better? Or will John screw it all up? Rated M for the 8th chapter and bits of the 9th, the rest would normally be rated T for mild swearing and my paranoia-issues. This is my first story, so please don't be too harsh. Completed. Enjoy! :)
1. Chapter 1: introduction

**Chapter1: 221 B BAKER STREET 08:32 h Sherlock's bed**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, BBC, or Moffat. They own me.**

Sherlock lay on top of John. Now that was something different. John chuckled quietly, but soon stopped, grimacing to himself due to an immense headache.

He had somehow managed to get Sherlock into a bar last night and was still wondering how the hell that could have possibly happened.

The pompous arse never even got near to a bar and drinking wasn't especially his favourite thing to do either. In fact, Sherlock never drank and whenever other people drank he just sneered at them and their idiocy. Fortunately, John always pulled Sherlock aside as quickly as possible, making it unbelievably hard for Sherlock to insult the drinkers or to embarrass them. Good for one, bad for the other.

But what event had caused Sherlock to change his mind over this? It must have been an important one, of that he was sure. Sherlock never easily gave up his principles. If he gave them up at all.

After a few moments of pondering, he still had no idea. The last evening was still a bit of a blur and it didn't make the impression that the fog would clear anytime soon. The only thing he could remember though was Sherlock lulling and singing like a lunatic. It was still a mystery how a man, who normally didn't spend his time on such "utterly idiotic nonsense", could remember all the lines of "Highway to Hell" and "Just give me a reason" flawlessly. He had to investigate on that furthermore.

And he also remembered how Sherlock had shaken his head to the rhythm, making his unruly curls bounce up and down with the music, looking incredibly cute. Wait, what the frick had he just thought? NO, no, this was wrong. He wasn't attracted to men; it was unnatural, hateful really. He had learned as much from his father, gay was wrong. And he most definitely wanted it to stay that way.

But then there was Sherlock's voice, which seemed to have other plans, murmuring deeply in his sleep right then and after some time muttering John's name, sending shivers down his spine. He wished it would all stop.

But to his defence, everybody (if gay or not) could find something at least mildly attractive about Sherlock's voice. At least John told himself so.

John sighed and tried to shuffle out of Sherlock's grip, but that only caused the detective hold on tighter, like a little boy holding onto a teddy-bear. A grumpy one at that. So John made the decision to solely wait and see. He would like to see Sherlock's reaction to this incident.

If he normally cringed even if barely hearing of the word "touch", then how would his reaction be to this? At one point he was sure, it would certainly be interesting.

John tried to snuggle into Sherlock's arms again and succeeded after only a short time. He felt safe and comfy in Sherlock's arms, naturally in an _incredibly _heterosexual way. So now he just had to kill the time until Sherlock woke up. It could take a long while though, if he recalled the last time Sherlock had slept properly.

* * *

Sherlock woke up and instantly wanted to fall asleep again, right on the spot. His head felt like a bomb, exploding every ten seconds and everything sounded just a tad bit too loud. He felt like in rehab... was he in rehab? Had he taken drugs again? Hopefully not! Oh god, John definitely wouldn't approve! Not to mention Mycroft, he would go riot.

He opened his eyes only slightly, adjusted them to the light and glared sheepishly at what he was clinging onto. And then he remembered.

* * *

What Sherlock did next was something that John certainly didn't see coming. Sherlock kissed him on the cheek. "Good morning John, have you missed me while you were sleeping?" he said smugly, while John was too stunned to answer and afterwards added, "I think I'm going to be able to make that up for you", trailing kisses all over John, finishing with his mouth.

Did I mention that they were naked? John hadn't noticed before either, but it became painfully evident to John, who's certain body part was forming quite an impressive bulge in the sheet. Sherlock took that as a yes to continue, but was harshly interrupted by none other than John himself, who was fuming. And still had no clue as to what the hell had happened.

"What the hell Sherlock?" he managed to say and let out a shaky breath. This really wasn't what he expected to happen, at all! A tiny fragment of his heart had skipped when Sherlock had kissed him, but the other part screamed "nooooo!" loudly, as if the world had just gone down and the pair of them with it.

Well, this was nothing but close to it. But what had encouraged Sherlock to do this? Was he joking or someth...

And then his mind made click.

And oh... fuck ! (the fuck may be interpreted any way you want)


	2. Chapter 2: last night part 1

**Chapter 2: Last night**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, only John. **

Boredom overweighed the biggest part of Sherlock's brain.

John was out with Mike for a pint, Greg was on holiday, Mrs. Hudson was with her neighbour and even Mycroft, the prat, wasn't reachable at the time. And there was absolutely NOTHING to do.

Even the gun seemed to have vanished and he had run out of body parts. This wasn't fun, not at all! It appeared as if the world had conspired against him. He let out an exaggerated sigh.

The only thing that he hadn't used in the last few days, including the cigarettes (Don't you dare tell John!), was the telly. It stood there and almost screamed I'm superfluous! I'm only streaming horrific TV-shows that only Andersons watch, but what can you do.

Sherlock slumped himself onto the sofa and grabbed the control, already preparing for the dullest evening ever. How tedious the world was. He hoped John would come home soon, so he could entertain him.

* * *

After several minutes of mindless soap-operas, Sherlock gave in. He just couldn't stand this bugger anymore. Emotions, emotions everywhere! And the actors weren't high-quality either, hire a potato it would do a better job! Sherlock turned around, so now his face was lying flat on the pillow, letting only the bunch of curls out into plain view.

What should he do though? Was there _anything _to do at all? In the world? John, this heartless traitor! How could he possibly do such a cruel thing to him? Maybe John didn't want to spend his time with him? He muffled a few indefinable curses into the union-jack pillow.

Sherlock had been in love with John for an impressive amount of time, actually almost from the very beginning. And although it had taken some time to confess those feelings to himself, he knew they had always been there, somewhere. If you had been asexual almost all your life, consider your confusion when finding out you've got feelings for somebody else.

But confessing them to John was an entire other story. That wouldn't ever happen, couldn't ever happen. Everything would fall… again.

As if Reichenbach hadn't been enough, though. He shuddered.

For some reason even Sherlock didn't know, Reichenbach couldn't be deleted from his brain, no matter how hard he struggled against it. All the memories kept coming back to him and sometimes upset him to the point of terrifying horror, but he just couldn't let go.

But as horrifying as that time might have been, it had one good side to it. In these days the yearning for John had increased vehemently and Sherlock had started to wonder if these feelings that he owned were only those of a friend.

Because the longing to snog someone senseless wasn't really included in an average friendship, as far as he could tell.

But of course their relationship was at no point average, was it?

And that was the exact period when he had found out he was in love. Had been for a dreadfully long time. And with no one other than John Watson.

It brought him hope at that time. Or rather John brought him hope. And that was his motivation to fight on, to never let go. Because if he succeeded, John would be alive. And that was all that had mattered to him.

But never being able to confess those feelings to John had made him feel like there was a hole inside. A rather big hole which increased with every date John brought home, with every second passing in which he didn't speak of his true feelings.

Why couldn't John just be gay? It would make thinks much less different. They could be snogging right now! He sighed desperately at that thought.

All these feelings made him feel awful, so he decided to clear his mind off of things a bit. Maybe he could visit John in the bar?

He knew bars were actually one of the places he least wanted to visit right now, but there wasn't anything else to do, really. And John was there as well. Definitely a pro.

* * *

Strong and self-confident steps led Sherlock to the door of the bar, which neon signs blinked brighter than a few suns combined. After only a second of looking into the neon light, he was sure that he detested it. His eyes had started hurting already.

But the neon signs weren't of any importance, therefore he placed them in the back of his mind, for later. Maybe he could form a plan then: how to rid the bar of its horrible lights. They would probably be thankful for the change. Neon light is a terrible thing indeed.

Some foot-work later he found himself on the dance floor of the club, trying to get away from impressive hoards of dancing and lulling people and not being able to locate John anywhere. You didn't need Sherlock to deduce that his mood was borderline shitty.

Until he noticed a spot in far distance to himself that looked just like jumpers and jam. Must be John then.

The detective became giddier with every step that he took towards John and his knees seemed willing to buckle up. Other people would have described Sherlock as very composed then and there, but he felt like the complete opposite. Naturally he didn't let that shine through, though.

But once he had finally reached John, his giddiness and excitement had all but vanished. Instead nausea took their places and Sherlock felt like throwing up any minute from then.

The reason for this retort was that this spot, or rather his spot, was now slow-dancing with no one else apart from Mary Morstan, one lady that they had met on a case last week.

Sherlock seemed to boil with fury and wanted to turn on the step, he couldn't withstand their sight any longer. And it seemed that Watson didn't want him there anyway.

Thus he started furiously and grimly stalking away until he was interrupted by a shout coming from across the room. "Sherlock!" yelled a voice that sounded very similar to John's and after turning around was found guilty of being so.

Was he now forced to small-talk with that woman? Or even worse, with John? Right now was really not the time or the place. And that Morstan-woman was looking at his _(__his__)_ doctor as if he was her rightful prey. He had never seen a woman more disgusting.

Or a man more drunk.

John stood (or rather swayed) around and started mumbling a few lines of a song, but dismissed it shortly after not being able to recall the rest of it. He grinned maniacally and let his gaze wander from Mary to Sherlock, though surprisingly staring longer at Sherlock than at Mary.

The hopeful side of Sherlock's heart fluttered when he noticed and appeared to burst when he heard the slurred words that came out of John's mouth only seconds later.

"S'lock look… nicer than Mehry, wanna take 'Lock. Sherly sexier… Jawn loooooooove his Lock. "John "said" whilst hiccupping and later humming contently.

Afterwards he stared at Sherlock for a very few seconds and added quietly "…love you!" With an earnest expression on his hedgehog-like face.

Sherlock gaped at John a moment and then his face lit up like an explosion. So… there was a possibility that John, _John_, loved him? Him of all people?

Oh, how badly he wanted that to be true.

Although, most likely, John was just being his drunk self. The truth behind his exclamation was highly questionable and if he would even remember it the next day was another issue entirely. How naïve he had been. Nevertheless it gave Sherlock great pleasure to witness such a scene and having been told that he was loved, for once and for all really loved, made him feel weightless. "Like a fairy, John", he recalled and could do nothing but chuckle at the thought of it.

And even if it all really was only John being drunk, it would be a memory that he would always hold dear.

He may never hear these words be spoken from John out of sincerity and with a clear head, but at least he had now got the chance of hearing them at all. Merely hearing them come out of John's vocal chords made Sherlock happier than he had ever been. It was more than he could have ever wished or hoped for.

The man really did do wonders to Sherlock.

Soon after Sherlock had more or less recovered from the sudden flood of emotions and tried to compose himself again. It looked as if Mary was gaping at him already, but it seemed that there was another reason apart from his absent-minded ponderings.

Her breath had gone a little shaky around the edges and you could see her anger seep through her vivid eyes. She took another tiny look at John and one a little longer at Sherlock. Mary looked as if she was just about to turn on the spot, when she said beforehand:

"You…You! I… I hope you two will get happy together, you know. You both make a _wonderful _couple. Not… Not that I would care anyways… (*muffled*)… bastard…"

It was too late for her to receive her reply, by the time Sherlock had opened his mouth she was long since gone. Not that that mattered to Sherlock, though.

He turned his attention to John again and smiled broadly at him, which swiped John off his feet. See, Sherlock actually smiling hasn't happened often in the last weeks. It had made the appearance that Sherlock, or rather his mind, had been rather preoccupied during that time. The only thing Sherlock had done throughout it was staring into nothingness, which was right then placed on the ceiling. Never. Speaking. One. Single. Word!

And in addition to that, the smile was actually genuine. Like really authentic. Almost unbelievable.

Sadly the smile didn't last too long and the wrinkles around Sherlock's eyes disappeared, letting the smooth, even skin in sight again. Almost all his features went blank again, but you could still see the sparkle behind his eyes if you only watched closely. The ex-soldier was watching Sherlock's every move and even such a small detail couldn't go unnoticed from John's trained eyes, naturally.

Oh god how much he wanted to touch Sherlock right now! His raven-like curls and his marble skin did things to John. Not to leave out his striking eyes which left John shivering and seemed to pierce right through John's soul. But Sherlock didn't give John much time to appreciate Sherlock's gorgeousness and instead decided to speak up, again with a boyish smile on his face, much to John's pleasure.

"Looks as if we have scared your "date" off then, hmm?" (Which was followed by an almost vicious chuckle) "Are you sober enough to walk home with me? Or shall we get a taxi? I don't mind either alternative, we should just get home quickly. I don't think it would do you any good to stay here though, at least not in the state you are currently in. So?"

"I wanna stay, 's nice here! Just... for a short time? 2 songs? Pleeeaaase?" John begged full of hope and made a face the nearest he could get to a puppy-dog, which was cuter than anything Sherlock had ever seen in his whole life.

He should ask John to do that more often, especially when drunk. It was too ridiculous and scrunched up to be real.

"Okay, persuaded. ", he sighed "But not for longer than half an hour, deal?"

"Deal!"

**Notes: Thanks for all the kind reviews and follows I've recieved and another special shout-out to my best friend, because she's one huge ball of awesomeness. Please R&R to become as awesome! **

** Lots of love, cream-tea-with-a-madman :D**


	3. Chapter 3: last night part 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, Moffat, or anyone else. If I did though, o.o **

**Author's note: Hullo, this is a rather short chapter, but I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless. I'm not so very content with this chapter, please bare with me. The other chapters will be worth it, I swear. Have fun! :) **

30 minutes expanded into an hour, the hour into two and if Sherlock was to be true to himself, he had started enjoying himself. John had found delight in complementing Sherlock in the randomest times and the detective's mood was far better than the best.

It seemed that both men had jumped over their shadow this night. Sherlock didn't have scruples with drinking anymore, actually quite the opposite, and John had destroyed his heterosexual facade and had finally given in to his cravings for one of the Holmes' brothers. (And no it's not Mycroft, idiot. ;))

And after all they both felt happy with their decision, how could they not? This just felt too right to be wrong.

* * *

The later the day, the more drunk and sillier they got. Sherlock had his fun with deducing anybody John asked him for and the violinist was so drunk that he sometimes just made up the weirdest facts about people simply to make John laugh.

After some time John (mind you, not Sherlock) had the idea of teaching Sherlock some dance-moves which failed miserably. Sherlock was made for waltz but freestyle-dancing? Hell no. He'd rather eat one of Mycroft's umbrellas than having to freestyle any longer and his unenthusiastic wobbling made this pretty clear to John.

So instead the considerate doctor proposed another initiative to Sherlock. He told Sherlock to teach him how to waltz. Alas, they made their way through the dance-floor waltzing wildly and fastly so that they matched the rhythm, receiving weird looks from party-goers, which wasn't a rarity if you accompanied the great Sherlock Holmes.

It was a silly and comfortable way to spend an evening.

* * *

But the comfiness didn't last too long, at least not for Sherlock. The reason for this was that John insisted on him singing, actually singing in front of all these people! And John didn't even have an appropriate reason for this, aside from the fact that John apparently seemed to have a thing for Sherlock's voice.

Sherlock exceedingly didn't want to do this, but then there was his little John who had been pleading for, well about 20 minutes now? His eyes looked like little buttons and to Sherlock he was just one huge ball of cuteness and kittens, how could John be able to do this to him?

As a consequence Sherlock now had an inner conflict, Hooray ! Thanks very much John. And his state of drunkenness didn't help him in any way either.

So Sherlock made a simple and easy decision, but one he knew he would most likely regret later. He sang. And if it was only to make John happy.

To hell with this all.

* * *

They stumbled out of the café laughing and bickering like little school girls, swaying and leaning onto each other for support. Sherlock was still humming one of his songs he sang, but singing was more of an overestimation at this point, it was something that "could" be called lulling but even that was debateable.

You may have got it by now, they were drunk like shit.

John was astonished about what a nice voice Sherlock had and impressed about how self-confident Sherlock had looked on stage, though John had seen Sherlock's hand tremble slightly, a clear sign for anxiety. Still Sherlock stood there as a rock against the shore, with a few people cheering, how could they not?

But Sherlock's voice had had the most massive impact on John and had entirely blown his mind. It was so crisp, clear, dark and so beautiful and warm it could probably melt ice. It had been an awesome idea to force Sherlock into doing it and he regretted it not one bit.

Yes, Sherlock had perhaps been frightened to death, but the outcome of it had been amazing.

However his train of thought was disturbed by Sherlock's way too loud voice, which was shouting out for a taxi and immediately getting one, as usual.

So they climbed, or rather fell, into a cab, blubbering like tiny infants. Their cabbie must've gone through hell and back with them, the only possibility when you have to bear these two morons.

* * *

They dropped off at Baker Street and rushed into the flat as if they were driven by another hound dog. The little time they had left until they completely lost control of themselves and merely started molesting each other was spent in ripping their clothes off and spreading them all over the flat.

The pair of them almost couldn't keep it together in the cab and now wasn't a place to start with that either. The longing stares and slight, soft touches had been teasing them all throughout the ride and had made them pulsing for each other's bodies, sending heat through them all the time.

It was too much to put up with and the drinking destroyed the last dignity they still had left.

They barely made it to the bed and John started to bite Sherlock's neck right away, but was cut short by the almost moaning detective. "Joh...John-Do, do you really want to do this? Not that I'd complain, but..." "Shhhh... Sherlock. I want nothing in the whole bloody world more than you, understood?" "Hmmm..."

What happened next is left to your imagination. ;)

**Another author's note: I am sorry if you came here for the slash, but I am not and never was one for writing it, especially if my best friend and my sister are reading as well. :) Sorry!**


	4. Chapter 4: There and back again

**Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock... *****sobs in a corner***

******Present (today)**

John's eyes wandered from Sherlock to the sheet and back again.

He could hardly grasp the idea of him and Sherlock, actually...doing that. The whole thought left him feel unbearably confused. It all seemed so impossible and that especially for the man lying on top of him.

How could this have ever happened? For once Sherlock was the most asexual bastard he had ever come across and John was under no circumstances gay! Nope, this was all one single misunderstanding! It had to be!

But the problem was that even each and every one of these facts couldn't justify the evident love-marks all over Sherlock's skin or overshadow the fact that they were situated in John's bed, both naked and still half lying onto each other. And even if you were as daft as to ignore these evident facts, John's memory was still distressingly intact and he could mesmerise each single word and touch that had passed between them.

But he John Watson, ex-captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was. Not. Gay!

It must have been the alcohol, yes, yes, that was the only possible explanation. There was no way that John could have done this willingly, god no. And although John remembered exactly what he had said before and how he reacted to every one of Sherlock's moves, he nonetheless desperately clung onto the hope of this. There was no other way to arrange any of this with his conscience.

* * *

John took another look at Sherlock's face and became witness of a weird transformation:

At first Sherlock looked victorious, with triumph written all over his face, but from one second to the other his face gave the impression of tearing apart, crumbling like pastry, when he saw the angry and denying face of John.

John's face softened a bit seeing the alteration, but hardened instantly when thinking about the deep shit he was currently in.

"Sherlock... why? What is this all, I don't understand! I am not gay, never! How could you seduce me into having sex? And that especially with you? I can't understand how anyone could ever..."

"I thought you ...you..." Sherlock said, backing off the bed and John's body rapidly.

"Now, let me speak for myself. I am the complete opposite of gay and have never had any kind of second thought about you." (If you squint really hard) "You must have taken advantage of the alcohol, there's nothing more to this. " John said whilst also standing up and positioning himself opposite of Sherlock, his facial expression mirroring a rollercoaster.

"But I lov..."

"Shhhh! No other word about this, we'll just stay friends, alright? Just like the old times. Nothing more and nothing less."

A heavy sigh left Sherlock's lips, who was feeling like a broken clock which batteries could not be replaced.

And at that moment Sherlock did something that was completely unexpected for both parties. If you'd ask him later he would either completely neglect it or tell you that it was the dumbest thing he could have ever done, especially after such a speech.

But people do what people do, particularly when they're sleepy or hung over.

"John Watson. I... I am in love with you! I have been for so long and now you just... Yesterday you told me that you did as well, how you can change so quic...?"

"But I am not, I don't, I"

"Now it is my time to speak, John. You have interrupted me enough by now. I love you, okay? Go deal with that and your other problems. How can one person be so, so cruel? Last night was so real and all the things you said to me, do you remember? Any of it? Nobody could make this all up, you were so... you seemed so honest, John. "

Both their minds were fuming with anger, at equal parts discontent with the situation. Sherlock still couldn't get it that he had really and ultimately said these final words. He was happy that he at last had gotten them out, but the other side of the coin was that John would most likely leave him now. For once and for all.

It's not like he had not seen this coming. He had always known it would come eventually. And living with someone as irritating as Sherlock couldn't be easy, he was painfully aware of it. But for the day to come so quickly? He at least had counted on another year or two, if not even more.

How dumb can one high functioning sociopath be? He had screwed everything up again now, hadn't he? If he was John he would probably qualify this as "a bit not good". Huh, a "bit" not good.

John looked up to Sherlock with a stark anger in his eyes but also some softness, which Sherlock couldn't make anything of.

"Sherlock, I don't love you, all right? I mean you are a dude, I couldn't, wouldn't ever date a man, it just seems so... strange. It is not right."

"So this is what I am to you then, strange? "

"No, I", John stuttered.

"You didn't mean it John? Hm? Well it's too late for that now. You are not even an inch better than the bullies were at school. "Hehe look at that faggot, yeah a right out creep isn't he? Weirdo! Freak! Just go ahead and give us the honour of killing yourself, everyone would be better off. ""

"Wait, you never talked about that! Sherlock, I really didn't... this was not my intention, at all! Believe me Sherlock. I am so, so sorry for the things they did to you, you must have been terrified. This is so wrong, I can't believe..."

"John, I don't need any of your feigned concern, just go." Sherlock said lamely, staring at the floor with heavy eyes.

"We have to talk about this, this is important, Sherlock. And no, my concern is not feigned in any way. What makes you think that? I care about you a whole deal, okay?"

"Just leave me!" Sherlock said, his voice rising slightly.

"No, Sherlock, I won't. This is fucking important, do you understand? Don't just tip-toe around everything. Why didn't you ever tell me before? Were you frightened? Scared?"

"LEAVE. ME. ALONE!" Sherlock shouted angrily now, with his full voice growing to the highest volume he could reach, leaving John startled.

John was humiliating him more right now than any of the bullies ever had. He was by no means capable of talking about this topic right now. And that especially not to a man who had only minutes ago told him he would and could never ever love him, not even if he was the last man walking on earth.

Sherlock exhaled sharply, a dull and tired glint in his eyes. It was the face of a man who was giving up. He situated himself swiftly on the edge of his bed, crossed legs and neutral expression in place.

Holmes tried his best not to look worn out, but sometimes even the master of disguise can fail.

"It would do us both good if you were to leave me now John, you are not essential to me anymore." he said in a whisper, which was straight out a lie. John would always be essential to him. But this situation was too much to handle and his mind craved for some peace and quiet. Next destination: mind palace. His eyes fell shut.

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes look at me! Sherlock? Sherlock, are you even listening? Sherlock!?"

**Author's notes:****I know my profile says I will update this story every weekend and on weekends only, but hey! I'm ill at the moment, so I can do whatever damn-well pleases me. :D **

**This story is right now going into a way other direction than I actually intended, with way more tension. I hope you like it either way.**

**And yes, John's pretty much a prat in the whole story. I just noticed that John is always the goodie-goodie in almost every fanfic and Sherlock always comes across as the idiot, who does everything wrong and spoils John's happiness and stuff. Rebellion! **

**Please R&R as always and I hope you had a great time. **

**Adios -cream-tea-with-a-madman :)**


	5. Chapter 5: something, anything

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, Moffat, Gatiss, the Cucumber, the Hobbit or anyone else. **

"I love you." What a stupidity. And that out of his own mouth, almost unbelievable. Hadn't he always told himself that emotions would bring him his downfall? This was the best example for it, caring was not, under no circumstances, an advantage.

And love was by far the most vicious of these disadvantages, so why had fate decided to pull that exact string on him? He knew he had never been blessed by nature, just looking on his own face proved that fact right. But to be this ruthless? God really must hate him.

Sherlock opened his eyes only a slit, analyzing the room's every corner and grain of dust. It looked as if John had been in and out of the room a few times, but there wasn't even one particle of the man in sight, thank goodness. Sherlock really wasn't up for another confrontation.

Numb was the feeling that described his condition the best. But not only in psychological form, his physical condition was even worse. Every muscle and sinew was neither aching nor feeling any good. It was just a dark, big hole of emptiness, which replaced Sherlock.

A deep frown lay on his features and was only smoothed out when Sherlock decided to grab his violin.

* * *

Finally! A sound emerged from Sherlock's room.

John had been waiting for a reaction, a movement, anything for 5 days straight, but even shouting at the poor man that Mycroft had ran out of cake again didn't work, which usually snapped Sherlock out of his trance-like state.

It wasn't an abnormality for Sherlock not to move or speak for a certain amount of time, but such a long stretch only appeared on seldom occasions.

John had been pretty worked up about their little disagreement, but was still clinging onto his point of view as if his life depended upon it.

John was still not and will never be homosexual. Even if the person of interest was the cunning Sherlock Holmes, whose cheekbones could cut open glass and whose hair was made to be worshipped and... Fuck.

He had lost track of his thoughts once again. Time to reorganize.

He wished he was Sherlock right now, with his fancy mind palace and an eternity of space to be filled with data. A big red delete button wouldn't be too bad either.

But, well he wasn't... which admittedly had its pleasant sides as well. For a fact, he had never had to stand Mycroft for his entire childhood, John would've gone mad. Besides, John had never been bullied in his life which he was very thankful for.

He couldn't do much than feel sorry for Sherlock on that aspect. And as much as John had heard, Sherlock's family wasn't one big ball of cuddles and niceties either, more so the opposite.

No wonder Sherlock had become who he was. Not that John could complain.

And there didn't seem to be an end to the bullying, Anderson and Sally still stated their opinion of Sherlock every time they met, which hurt Sherlock more than he let through. Every idiot could see that.

And on top of that John had done nothing anything to make Sherlock feel better; he had even called Sherlock strange, just what his scarred soul had needed. God, what an idiot he was.

A miserable song could be heard from Sherlock's room.

John wondered if Sherlock's improved productivity was for the better or the worse, because Sherlock on one hand had finally started moving and had actually done the one thing that could be called Sherlock's hobby. (If analyzing severed heads or performing odd experiments didn't count, which honestly did not. At least not to John. )

But on the other hand the piece Sherlock played right now was absolutely heart-breaking and shattered John into a thousand little pieces. If this really was a display of Sherlock's emotions then Sherlock was pretty much fucked.

It was beautiful yes, but there was a particular sorrow to it which almost made it unbearable to listen. Almost.

* * *

Sherlock stopped playing all of the sudden, throwing his bow onto his bed in one impulsive movement. This didn't work! At ALL!

He ruffled his hair maniacally; his eyes ripped open almost as wide as Frodo's.

His mind was one big battlefield and it was not yet sure which side won, or who and how many sides there even were present. Everything just attacked him: his past, the present and his non-existent joyful future.

Each thought of John turned into something negative, which usually led to butterflies in his stomach, or whatever these idiotic, sentiment-driven morons that call themselves the human race may insist on naming it.

All this anger he held back and all the love he couldn't disguise, it was too much to handle. His mind was clouded with John-ness, images of his laughter or the kind wrinkles around the edges of his eyes.

And all it left him with was him being on edge himself and inwardly cold, blank with nothing left except John.

He couldn't think straight, even simple deductions were a difficulty, which paralyzed him immensely. Not even the sound of footsteps sparked anything inside of him. Normally Sherlock could deduce almost everything by footsteps; who they were, how their day had been, what their purpose was and so on and so forth.

And now? Nothing!

He had to do something, anything in his power to stop this madness. It was becoming unhealthy, which didn't matter to him as long as the only subject was his body. But his mind was his soft spot; he couldn't tolerate any indifference in there.

Maybe he should consult John; he was a medical man at least. This may not be his area of expertise, but John always had advice on every aspect of life, whatever it may be. John had at all times been his compass in morality, he'd surely know something to make this all end.

And yeah he'd have to talk about feelings and all that scum, blah, blah. But it would all be for the better, there was the possibility at least.

And Sherlock couldn't blame John for calling him strange; it was what he was and had always been. John did nothing but mouth what probably everyone on the force, his family and probably the world thought of him. It was only the reality.

A new flood of energy reached the detective, who wanted nothing more than to see his doctor again. If he couldn't have him, then he could at least look at him.

* * *

Surprisingly enough Sherlock soon stalked to John in a hurry, red eyes all alert.

John couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock had spent any second of the last days sleeping, the state of him told the contrary quite vehemently. The same did the deep violet rings under his eyes.

Sherlock stuttered somewhat confusedly, uncertain and mumbling, but before long took courage.

"John- we need to talk! It's important, please?"

"Bring it on, genius."

**Author's note: Yes, I am a nerd of anything relating to LOTR, the Hobbit and really _anything_ Tolkien. I just wanted to have at least one little Frodo's eyes reference. Just look at them, they're huge! **

**And Hooray, I am healed again! Thanks for the nice reviews, please keep them going! I feed on them like Moffat feasts on tears! **

**R&R if you liked it and if you didn't like it, do it as well and tell me what I can improve. Thank you very much! **

**Love to you all, -creamtea-with-a-madman :)**


	6. Chapter 6: past, present, future

**Disclaimer: Good god, I still don't own Sherlock! Why do they have to make me say it all the time?**

** *sobs in a corner once again***

* * *

„John, I need to consult you. I'll even fetch the milk next time; I just need your advice."

"Advice?"

"Yes."

"From me?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"No, it's not, it's just... I feel like one of these stupid agony column-writers for teenagers." A slight smile crossing his otherwise distressed features.

Sherlock did not respond in any way to that remark, too caught up in his own thoughts to think and listen at once.

"Well, anyway, we need to speak about this morning, I need you to know-"

"Sherlock, our fight was 5 days ago. Haven't you got _any _feeling for time?"

"Really? Pity. Anyhow, what was I saying? Yes, I need you to know that my brain keeps doing things I can't explain. I can't concentrate on anything, really. Not even what you ate for breakfast, if you went to work today, if you still keep Mycroft's favourite umbrella under your bed (I know you do), and so on. There's just nothing, nothing, nothing, always nothing. It's so frustrating... I can't even trust my own brain anymore John. Is there anything you can do to help me?"

"I, I don't know Sherlock, I really don't. I don't believe I can help you, sorry. "

"Well thanks anyway", said Sherlock, who started wishing he hadn't come, because now the part would come in which John would ask-

"Sherlock, there's one thing you could help me with, though"

"And that is?" The taller of the two said, already fearing and knowing what would come.

"We should talk about your time at school, you know-"

"Know what?" Sherlock uttered, playing the naive child he never was.

"About the bullying and all, that must've been awful. How'd you handle it? Did your family do anything to help?"

"My family? " He laughed sarcastically. "No. The only thing I got from them was a good, old-fashioned beating from my father and sometimes even..."  
"Sometimes even what, Sherlock?"

"It's nothing, nothing, really. It's not anything of importance; it was just that sometimes ... "He cleared his throat."It doesn't matter John."

Oh, how much John wanted to beat the shit out of the Holmes-senior right now. John wasn't as daft as he sometimes looked. The meaning of Sherlock's words was as obvious like an open book.

"And Mycroft, or your mother? Did they just sit around and pretend nothing had happened all day?"

"Well Mycroft did care in the beginning, but soon he got the job in the government, my only protection gone."

"And mother? She didn't ever give two fucks about my well-being, sometimes she even forgot I existed at all. Until one day, the day when it all began, when he started to force me to... you know. She started to become jealous of me. Her every ill-will was addressed against me. And at that moment she decided to make my life hell. Any possibility of me being happy was spoiled by her and- why do I even tell you?"

Fuck! Fuckedy! Fuck! Fuck! He had once sworn to himself never to tell this anyone, never. What the devil had come over him to just blurt it out like this?

But he knew. The reason stood right in front of him, in form of an almost as devastated army doctor.

John had this strange effect on him that no one else ever had; opening up to him was like revealing deductions of his, he just could not possibly hold back.

"Well, now you know at last." Sherlock said nervously, trying to look as calm and relaxed as one can be after telling a person one of your deepest and darkest secrets.

"Wasn't there anyone, ever?"

"Umm...Well, there was Victor Trevor, my first ever boyfriend. At first he supported me, made the bullies feel stupid, protected me from my father. For once in my life I felt safe. But then we grew apart and he ended up pairing up with my "dear colleges" in school, after mother had screwed things up _again_."

"I'm so, so sorry. Sherlock?" John said with a sincere and gentle look on his face.

"Yes?"

"Your father should be happy that he's not in the same room with me at the moment, I could fucking kill him!" The doctor said, his usually kind face now turning into hatred itself.

"Too late for that. He already died of a heart attack; 2 years, 4 months, 14 days and-"Sherlock stated nonchalantly, only stopping to look at the clock"6 hours and 12 minutes ago, to be precise."

"Poor, old Daddy never was one for patience, he raged as easily as I can breathe and did as often. No one came to his funeral apart from mother and the priest. It almost brought a tear to me eye." Sherlock said which was followed by another sarcastic chuckle. They seemed to be in fashion.

Sherlock looked and felt like a living corpse right now, his hair an indefinable mass of curls, his eyes black holes into his soul and his skin having turned into a greenish kind of colour. The transformation into a zombie was as good as complete.

Why did Sherlock always have to screw everything up? He sighed; there was no way out of this mess anymore. And soon the part would come that he dreaded the most, better get it over with quickly.

"You seem to still have questions, may I acquire as to what they are?" He exclaimed. There is yet some time left to be spent in blissful ignorance.

"Yeah, something connected to our fight. When you said that-that you loved me?"

"Yes, what about it?"

"You really meant it?"

"Obviously John, why should I lie about such a major fact?" Sherlock said with an eye-roll.

"Oh well, it's just- I didn't lie Sherlock. I still don't love you, are you okay with that?"

That was most likely the worst question he ever received. Are you okay with that? Okay? Really? It was as if asking whether or not Reichenbach had been fun.

Sherlock decided that John didn't deserve a reply and instead just shrugged.

"Can't we just stay friends? Good old times? No one will ever know this happened. We don't need to-"

"No we can't John, we can't..." Sherlock said quietly. "I love you, I can't hide it anymore. Every second that we are not together, every girlfriend you will bring. It will hurt too much to be able to stand. Either you take me or I'll just go..."

**Author's note/s: DUN-DUN-DUNNNN! This chapter is a little melodramatic, but fun to write anyway. :)**

**I had to write loads of dialouge and hope my failure is only limited. **

**I personally find Sherlock's family and their relationships/ mingles very interesting if it annoys you though, I will keep it at bay. **

**Hope you had fun and a good day**

**-creamtea-with-a-madman :D**


	7. Chapter 7: names can't describe it

**Diclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, Moffat, blah, blah. **

"I can't Sherlock, I can't. You will have to leave, I'm sorry...Sherlock?"

A bunch of curls collided with the floor and a pair of icy-blue eyes closed abruptly, not wanting to let the traitorous sunlight into his eyes as of yet. Or ever again.

This was _l'enfer_, hell on earth. Why didn't John see how much this hurt?

But Sherlock wasn't given much time to complete his thought process; his exhausted mind swiftly fell into a deep slumber, so that he couldn't feel the strong arms that now guided him back to bed again.

* * *

One blanket later John found himself at Sherlock's bedside, staring at said face. Strangely enough it felt kind of good to be here, in a completely non- creepy way of course. He had never thought that to watch someone sleeping could provide any sort of pleasure, but here he was. Staring at his flatmate's face as if he was an angel.

But Sherlock's face truly had something angelic, especially in this position. Whilst sleeping Sherlock looked so peaceful, so at ease with the world.

Sherlock should by all means sleep a lot more, that was sure. The man sometimes went for centuries without sleep; the last days a good example for that.

Phew, he should get his mind off of things a bit; this was all a bit heavy. He had never seen Sherlock be so emotional for his entire life and it scared him to bits. This was not the Sherlock he knew, but it was kind of interesting what emotions did to the poor man. Almost like an experiment for Sherlock.

But John did worry about Sherlock, more than enough. He had not expected for Sherlock to ever fall in love, who did? And that especially with him? The normal, ordinary John Watson. Sherlock's pet and loyal blogger.

Good lord gracious, this was too much. He should be leaving now.

So, off to the pub? The pub it was!

* * *

What was it always with the blankets? There always was one: either for shock, for illness or the simple sheet for a normal day out. Sherlock had become a trend-setter.

But what was rather the question was why did Sherlock have a blanket wrapped around him right now? And why was there a tea? For him? He was by no means worthy of tea; he did not deserve it unlike John.

John. Had it been him? If he wasn't completely covered up in a blanket, he would slap himself right now. _Naturally_ it had been John. Who else cared for Sherlock anyway? And who else would be able to do it without the relatively high chance of certain death? Let's just skip the relatively high chance. Without dying in an instant?

But where was John? Had he just vanished? The simplest solution would be that he was out to get his nerves intact. John had strong nerves, but sometimes even patience itself had an outbreak.

Yes, that was most likely. Maybe he was in the pub?

Sherlock now tried to rid himself of the tons of blankets that seemed to be glued to his torso, only to trip over it again afterwards. It was so alike a slap-stick film; there would probably be a banana soon.

In his mingle he had overseen one important fact; there was a note lying under his cuppa in the neat but yet hasty hand-writing of no one else but John Watson.

_Am gone to the pub with Greg, won't be home tonight. Soup is in the fridge; if you need anything just give me a call- John_

John Watson, ever the predictable. Ever the loyal. Ever the heterosexual.

Oh god, why did his brain have to keep doing that? It was insufferable. No, John was not gay. And he would most likely never be. He felt a little pang at his heart.

Stop it, stop, stop, STOP! God, he hated his brain. Well, what was there to love? He had more than once been laughed at for his deductions, had never been one for sentiment until now. He had never been normal, complete, human. After all what was he?

The fake, the alien, the freak. Lord, what nickname didn't he possess?

He really had to bring this to an end, this was no good. Maybe he should follow John's example and get his mind cleared a bit as well? He had to leave eventually in any case. Had to leave this wretched place.

Perhaps he could go to the Cotswolds to one of the Holmes's manors; this one had always been a favourite of his. The only thing that disturbed you there were the sheep, nothing else.

It had been a while since he had last been there and maybe, just maybe it would do him good.

Why hadn't this idea crossed his mind before? It was brilliant.

John didn't have to notice that he was leaving, perhaps he could just smuggle himself out of the house, unnoticed like a shadow. He had had enough practice for that anyhow, the time during Reichenbach had not been completely without a sense.

So, Cotswolds then. Interesting choice.

He left the flat after a few hours of packing, leaving only a note as a sign that he had ever inhabited this flat. It felt so wrong. All so very, very wrong. But what was there to do? John did not love him, this was his only possibility to stay sane. Well, as sane as he ever could be.

The only thing that separated him from the cabbie now was the wet pavement and he wished it would just vanish. He was not ready to go, not yet.

Goodbye John, I don't know when I will see you again. Or if I ever will.

* * *

The door flew open and lead the way into the already welcoming and warm pub. So unlike Sherlock.

John took a look around, wanting for the feeling to seep in. Normally it made him feel more whole and less like the drunken idiot he was, but today everything reminded him of the detective. It just felt so wrong to be here and not with his little burden. Well maybe a burden, but a nice one. One that needed him.

Lord, he was here to enjoy his evening wasn't he? So, let´s-

What if something happened to Sherlock? He was not his proper self at the moment, anything could happen. Anything at all. Think about it John, your flatmate. In a dark alley. Half-dead. Blood . Everywhere. Dead.

God, stop it! He understood Sherlock now; a brain could be a right-out millstone. Wasn't there anything to occupy his mind with?

And in that exact split second he caught the sight of Greg. What a relief. A second more of this and he would've gone more nuts than he already was.

He let out a deep breath before rashly walking through the swarm of people, fighting his way through to Gregory. This club's popularity seemed to increase by the minute.

When he finally reached the cheerful man at least a tiny bit of the tension was blown from his frame and he started to relax, if only a little. Greg had at all times a calming and happy air about him and John was glad for it more than once, this being said occurrence.

"Hey." John said, too exhausted to initiate a conversation. This whole affair had been tiring him to no end.

"Hello John. " He said with positive surprise written all over his face. "How's your day going so far?"

"Well... it's okay. Not really my day."

"Oh. Has something happened? Trouble in paradise?" Lestrade assumed with his facial expression caught up in something between amusement and concern.

"Trouble in par-? Greg, we're still not a pair. And I'm not gay! How often do I need to repeat that?"

"Until you don't believe it yourself anymore."

"That's going to take an eternity then." John said, but for a completely unknown reason (*cough*-*cough*) he didn't feel as sure as he had done beforehand. It felt like lying.

"Anyway you want it soldier." Greg said trying to overshadow the awkwardness that had just ensued. "Let me introduce you to my date."

His date? John did not see her anywhere.

"Robin, come here!" he said, looking in the direction of a pretty woman who was chatting comfortably with another guy.

"Yes?" exclaimed a voice that sounded dangerously masculine. Was Greg gay?

"I proudly present my date, Robin." Greg said smugly.

"Date? Really Gregory?" said the dangerously masculine voice, whose owner was proved to be as manly as Chuck Norris. Fuck.

"Wouldn't boyfriend be a better term?" Robin said, afterwards smiled and continued smiling into their kiss.

This was the proof, Greg was a poofter. No denying that now. God, where had he ended up?

John turned his attention from the still passionately kissing pair onto the lady Robin had been chatting up. And damn, she was beautiful. One could say that this was the most beautiful lady he had ever seen in the entirety of his life. Good god!

He slowly began shuffling closer awkwardly, but then composed himself. If he was going to seek her attention, he would do it as a real man would. He wasn't a coward.

"Hello, I'm a good,old friend of Robin's, saw you standing here all alone and wanted to ask you whether I could give you some of my company?" John said being all gentlemen-like, but a tad bit clumsy.

"You don't know Robin at all, do you? You're just saying all of this to chat me up, hmm?" she said with a smile hidden behind her eyes.

"Yes. Could be." He was beginning to like this woman. A lot. Witty she was.

"I like honesty in a man. " She said and chuckled slightly. "Your name?"

"Oh, John Watson. And you?" he said, hoping he had not looked too much like a love-sick teenager.

"Mary, Mary Morstan."

**Author's notes: Oh my god! Will Mary destroy it all?**

**I don't really know much about the Cotswolds, my mind just gives me the image of wet and many sheep all the time. Sorry if this is wrong! **

**You don't know how much fun it was writing this, especially because this chapter is a lot bigger than the last ones. I didn't have much time writing them, so I now feel relieved to be able to be more productive again. **

**You may have already noticed that I am rubbish at making up chapter names, sorry! I am who I am. **

**Thank you for your support! I love you all!**

**-me (sorry, I'm lazy)**


	8. Chapter 8: the marriage

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, Moffat or any of his evil creations. **

**If suicide triggers something in you, please do not read. **

"I do."

"You may now kiss the bride."

At that clue the crowd started cheering loudly, a few with tears in their eyes. This was the moment they had all been waiting for:

John's and Mary's wedding.

Well maybe all except Sherlock, who was now taking his leave. He had not been anxiously awaiting this wedding, rather the opposite. This was more of a funeral to him, a funeral of whom? Of John's intelligence, their friendship but also of Sherlock's love, which was a thing he could not keep if he wanted to stay alive.

He took one last glance at the happy duo that was flooded with compliments and congratulations and even got a glance at Lestrade who probably praised John for finally getting over the bastard Sherlock was.

This was enough for Sherlock to finally let go and leave. Didn't these morons see? This was not the place John should be in, he should be with his detective. Warm and cuddled up on the sofa. Or maybe at Angelo's. But definitely not here.

Sherlock stormed off to his motorbike with a dangerous countenance on his face. He hastily searched his pockets for the key, but came across something else. Taking it out of his pocket, he remembered. A little syringe was situated in his hand, tiny and innocent.

Well, why not? There was no John left to nag on his conscience or a Mycroft either. Right when Sherlock wanted to tell him that he had distanced himself from John, Mycroft decided to die in an accident. Leaving him all to himself again.

So, what was there to lose? He didn't bother for his health anymore, had never done. And if John still worried about him or felt anything for him, then let him suffer. Sherlock didn't care.

He placed the syringe on his arm and just pulled, the liquid reaching his already worn-out system. Freedom!

He jumped on his motor-bike, having finally found the key. Sherlock felt so relieved. All the years he had had to hold back, the cravings sometimes too hard to bear. Now it was all over. Now he was complete.

He turned on the engines, not a single thought spent on what act he had just performed. Rashly he drove onto the road, simply ignoring other cars and scratching their doors or slightly bumping into them. Nothing really mattered.

And so he went on, leaving many irritated and enraged drivers on the way. Some cars even had to stop and it wasn't before long that the radio streamed that a complete maniac made the motorway a dangerous road to take.

Until he reached a traffic-jam and stuck between cars couldn't move an inch.

When they bit by bit reached the scene of action, an idea crossed Sherlock's clouded mind. What if he just... made it all stop? It wouldn't be too difficult.

They soon would reach a bridge; the only thing he had to do was drive. Maybe he could take a few others with him?

It would be so easy. No more pain, no more suffering. Just oblivion and nothing, nothing, nothing. It was almost too simple to be true.

Was there anything left of worth in his life? Anything that mattered? There was only one simple answer: no.

This was for John and his stupid Mary, so that they would always remember their wedding day as spoilt. The worst day of their life. How good that sounded.

He hoped that they may have the most wretched life on earth, that they would never be able to have the "joy" of children. Their house would be rotten and their marriage would fall into pieces. And then John would suffer for all that he had done, he should never stop. He deserved it.

Sherlock didn't feel like himself anymore, so light and didn't know what was wrong or right. But it didn't matter. He had never felt this free or relieved in his entire life.

"And I never will feel again. "

So, it was decided then. Death was his only possibility.

The last thing he was ever to see was a woman laughing in a car next to him. How ironic. She wouldn't laugh any further.

This really was the "Highway to Hell".

* * *

"John? John! There you are... I have to tell you something, bad, bad news!" said a completely dishevelled woman, with tears almost endlessly streaming off of her face.

If John had been more attentive, he would have seen Mrs. Hudson under the masses of tears and smudged make-up, but John was still too caught up with his wedding, especially with Mary. Damn had she been beautiful.

"Yes, what's up?" said John, who was still not even nearly following the conversation.

"Sherlock..." Now John was all ears. He had been wondering were Sherlock stayed all throughout the day. They may have lost touch in the last years, especially over a certain escapade, but John still cared for Sherlock as he had always done. He still counted Sherlock as his best friend. He cared.

"Yes?"

"He's ... he's dead."

**Author's note/s: Please don't kill me!**

**This is not the real chapter and not how the story really continues. I would laugh right now, but that could only be qualified as inappropriate.**

** I just collected some inspiration from Moffat and this is how it ended. Feeling like his evil granddaughter right now. (:**

**I only wanted to write something a _little_ bit psycho and depressing, because I don't have any sort of knowledge in that area. Feel free to suggest on what aspects I could improve.**

**The REAL next chapter is going to be published very soon, so stay with me if you have not yet unfollowed! **

**I'm sorry! **


	9. Chapter 9: Epiphany

**Disclaimer: I don't own nothing**

**T**he train rattled loudly when it stopped at another station. But it didn't merely rattle on the stations, oh no! It rattled **all the time.** It was so loud, so, so loud. It reminded him too much of home. Not John-home, but the home he spent his childhood in. The home he had been spoilt in. The home that almost cost him his life, several times. The home that had not really been one.

* * *

_Flash-back: 7 years old_

The rain streamed down his window, drawing nice little lines all the way. Some people considered the rain as depressing, but Sherlock? Never.

Some people called Sherlock a freak as well, so that is how much of their brain capacity they used. People were always as stupid as they told him to be.

Sherlock straightened up his tie a bit. Yes he wore a tie, obviously. It was his grandma's funeral. He had always called her the" granny of doom" and she had only laughed at it. But it had been the truth. She had been able to see everything and everyone. No particle could have escaped her watchful gaze. And so, whenever Sherlock had been a bad boy, Granny knew. And she told.

She had been the one to teach Sherlock how to deduce people into their components. She had been the one to light the flame of intelligence in him. And she had always been the one to forgive Sherlock and to love him. Nobody apart from her had really ever done so, even Mycroft sometimes failed at that task.

And now she was dead. Dead. Nothing.

How can something like this happen so fast? Only days before Sherlock had been in her garden, keeping an eye on the bees and joking with his granny.

And now the garden was unused, it would most likely rot as all the beautiful flowers would. Her chair would never be so voluminously filled again. Her cheeks would never glow with life and all her liveliness had drowned.

He couldn't even think about it, his eyes did the stupid thing again.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, what the HELL are you doing? Do you think you can just sit around all day and do nothing? There's work to do!" said his father, already a little bit unnerved.

"I don't want to!" Sherlock exclaimed grumpily. He was in no mood to help out, not now.

"Sherlock Holmes, get your tiny little arse up here right now!" Oh yes, he must have been drinking.

"No, I don't want to."

"You useless little git! Get your fucking self up right now or I _will_ punch you!"

"No you won't!"

"I will count to ten: 1, 2, 3,..."

"You won't do it anyway!" Sherlock said laughing at his father.

"I will teach you to fucking listen to me, son. If you don't –"

"Then what?" Sherlock said without a care in a world.

*womp*

A fist landed everywhere it shouldn't be and his father's weight lay heavy on Sherlock. At first he hit his nose, cracking. Then he hit his stomach, whimpering. Following he hit his balls, screaming.

Just the reactions that he had wanted. That he had needed.

But this wasn't enough ,not yet. Not now that he had the chance to finally do what he really wanted. He could live his all of his sick dreams and there was nothing and nobody that could keep him from it. Nothing.

And there was nothing that could keep him from laughing either.

When Sherlock's father finally left him, Sherlock felt cold and broken. Which he literally was.

Sherlock's father had never gone this far before, only a little bit of pain distributed over a very large distance. But never this much pain. Or such a short distance.

Would he ever be able to walk again?

How the hell was he going to attend the funeral now?

* * *

They almost fell through the door of her flat, John landing on Mary's soft and warm body. It was nice. Her hair smelled like flowers, her hair was beautiful and all in all she was the prettiest woman maybe in the whole existence of the universe. But still, something was off.

Whilst kissing her and afterwards breathing into her neck, taking in her scent, he started missing something. This hair was blonde as a Barbie's, but he longed for a bunch of black curls.

She was fragile, but John yearned for the maybe skinny but nonetheless strong frame of someone else.

This situation was not made to succeed, was it? Here he was kissing perhaps the most beautiful woman on earth and was only seconds away from getting laid and _what did he do_? He fantasized about someone else. And that someone being- being Sherlock Holmes?

For god's sake he should enjoy this! He should feel like the hero of the evening, but all he did do was feel guilty.

He shuffled a bit away from Mary, not sure what it was that he was doing.

And not so very sure about his sexual identity either, one can't be if fantasizing over a male. But Sherlock Holmes, really?

Other than Sherlock was hot like hell. He was witty and intelligent beyond any other creature that had ever seen the daylight. And these eyes, Jesus Christ! It was like eye-sex every time you looked into them. And maybe- fuck the maybe- he was in love with bloody Sherlock Holmes! Jesus Chist!

And he didn't even care. He didn't care what his father, his mother, his buddies or his colleagues would say. He didn't give a single damn! Oh, how beautiful this was. Such a bloody relief!

Mary watched John in his little epiphany, a little confused she was. She looked at John questioningly, who did not seem to notice anything apart from his own thought process.

"John, what is... what is it with you John? Only minutes ago you seemed so absorbed with me and –and-"

"I am sorry, but I have just noticed something. Something important."

"And that may be?" Asked Mary who had only wanted one damn good shag.

"I don't love you and I bloody may never will. " He laughed, this was so silly.

"And that is why you laugh at me? In my face?"

"Yes, sorry. I love someone else, someone better."

"Thanks very much John." She said, her lips making up a thin line.

"No, I didn't mean it-"

"John. Out!"

"I said out, didn't you understand me? Leave this god-forsaken room! RIGHT. NOW!"

John didn't need to be told twice (actually he did) and this was the fastest John ever ran out of a room.

Now he only had to find Sherlock. God, they had a lot of talking to do.

**Author's notes: This fanfic is really going into a way other direction than I originally anticipated, kind of angsty. I apologize if this is not what you are here for! The next chapter/s will be a lot more care-free!**

**And yeah I am not_ totally_ in love with Mary because she disregards everything Johnlock, but still... As a person I think she is quite cool. If she wouldn't destroy their relationship I would most likely adore her. So much about me!  
**

**Please leave a review, it makes my day! (even if it's criticism)****  
**

**And thank you to all for your kind reviews and all the awesome followers of this story, you mean the world to me!**

**Love as always -**_creamtea-with-a-madman_


	10. Chapter 10: the call

**Disclaimer: I don't even own the food I am eating. **

**J**ohn ran with almost warp-speed to the flat. To say that the passer byes were confused was a _huge_ underestimation.

The good doctor looked a little like **Khan*** whilst running; his face was set in full concentration and you sometimes couldn't quite say where he began and ended. It was just a mass of moving molecules, wobbling from one space to another.

When John finally reached the flat, he was powered out to no extent. He was never going to do that again. EVER! But it had been for a good cause.

John stepped into the flat as if he was on one of the famous drugs-busts. He analyzed each corner of every room, not even letting out the broom cupboard. But as Sherlock was not Harry Potter, he wasn't anywhere to be found.

Good god, what was the man up to now? Maybe he was on a case gone wrong, getting tortured _over _and_ over_ again. Stop... lord, stop it now!The brain was a complicated thing.

But he didn't have to tell his brain to shut up any longer, as he found a note pinned onto the fridge.

_Dear __John, _

_As you have decided that I was unworthy of your so called "love" and you were not in the position to be in want of acquiring a relationship with me, I made a decision as well, to be able to stay away from you and your evident foolishness. I hope you will consider my decision and come to terms with it, or as you would say it frankly: Fuck off. _

_With love_ –SH

Someone was angry. This far was obvious.

But John had to call Sherlock! Right now!Why must love always be spoiled? And how is it possible to spoil everything for yourself? But still, he could call, just maybe everything would work out. One could only hope.

* * *

Sherlock's phone rang. A shrill and aching sound.

Hadn't he told everyone to shut up? Just let him go, ignore him. It is only what he deserved.

But the ringing did not seem to have an end and so he decided to just pick it up. Destroying the connection had crossed his mind as well, but he soon let that idea be deleted. Maybe Greg was on the other line and would tell him that Anderson had burnt his earlobes, he wouldn't want to miss that for the world.

"Sherlock Holmes, detective, pissed off. Anything I could _possibly_ do to brighten your day?" Sherlock spit out.

"John Watson, doctor, same. I um... need to talk to you Sher'." John stuttered breathlessly.

"Sher'? Really?"

"Oh, no need to be a sissy, _Sher'_. It's about us."

"Us? Are you kidding? There is no-"

"There may be."

"Wait, what are you referring to?"

"I may or as well not-"

"Just say it!"

"I can't ! This is so embarrassing, to do this on phone..."

"Just get on with it John, I've got better things to do than –"

"Okay, okay. Christ, calm down. So, Sherlock. I need to tell you that I am the stupidest person alive and-"

"I knew that before, John."

"-I am so sorry, Sherlock. So, so sorry. I was too daft as to see that I- John Watson have never been more in love."

"With whom?" Sherlock said, with concern hidden behind his eyes.

"You, you moron."

**(*Khan= aka John Harisson, badass in Star Trek Into Darkness. Shame on you if you had to read this.)**

**Author's got some important stuff to say: I will be gone for the next two weeks and so my next chapter will take some time to be published, I am sorry. I still love you all, I just won't be having the time or the equipement there. Sorry! :/**

**This chapter is a litlle short as you may have noticed, but I just wanted to be able to publish something before I am gone. **

**I hope you all have a fantastic two weeks without me and will be able to carry on without this story for a while. Stay strong and have fun! **


	11. Chapter 11: on the same boat

**Disclaimer: You know all of this stuff already: I don't own Sherlock or anything realting to it, yadda, yadda, yadda. **

"Very funny John. I'm almost falling out of my seat."

"No, it wasn't meant as-"

"Yes ha-ha ,John. I get it."

"No, no, no! I really do love you!" John exclaimed.

"Oh, you're just saying this to make me look stupid. You with your friends, eh? Having a laugh? I've had enough, thanks very much. See you soon _darling. Lots of love." _Said Sherlock, evidently pissed off and turning off his phone. How could he have ever trusted that man?

Well, back to reality.

Seemed like the man in front of him had lost his wig again. We'll see when he notices. Not as if anyone would ever tell him, though. Too much fun.

* * *

Bugger, bugger, bugger!

Nothing ever went as planned, did it now? But whereas there had never been a real plan this didn't count, did it? God, he needed to get his head sorted.

He could... yeah actually he could...

At least the idea sounded good, it was worth giving it a try. And it was his one and only chance to set everything right.

* * *

There he was. Finally.

No train, no people, no sound, no hurry. Just silence. Simple. Sweet. Nothing like John.

Or was it? Normally it was. But not now: John was smoke. The smoke that came out of his mouth. Nothing more than ash. Dust. Dirt.

He lay down on the sofa nearest to him, cursing every human being that had ever seen the sunlight. If anyone of these morons came here now, he would slice-

*Ding-Dong*

He ripped open his eyes and just threw his cigarette onto the ground, stomping on it for better effect. The cleaner would have their share of fun.

A wave of anger roamed through him which he tried to dismiss, but failed at.

"Coming!" he yelled, trying to set his face to the most neutral expression he could encounter.

As he was running down the stairs, he wondered whether it could maybe be John who was at the door. What if it was John? What would he do? What would he say?

"Joh-?" Sherlock said, while opening the door roughly.

"Hello, brother dear."

* * *

I love you, you are so beautiful. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life. I meant it; I love you, really and truly. Wherever you are, I want to be? Oh god this sounded like a marriage proposal. Was this good? Or too romantic? You never knew with Sherlock Holmes.

Maybe "my room or yours?" would suffice, but as there were only Sherlock's or Holmes' rooms in the manor, that wouldn't do.

What should he do? What could he do? Maybe he could phone Lestrade, he had to know something, had to. There was no alternative, nothing he could really do else in a train.

"Lestrade?"

"I'm not there..." said man said quietly.

"Greg, what's up something wrong?"

"He, he left me. Robin... he did."

* * *

"My god Myc, how long do you want this to carry on? I understood. Sentiment is a defect found on the losing side. I have known before. It's just that I can't help it, okay? I love that idiot and-"

"But what can you do? There is nothing that will change his mind. I tell you, forget him, he's an idiot."

"Just like Lestrade then?" Sherlock said and paused curtly, looking at his brothers bewildered expression. "Oh, don't tell me you haven't given up on him. "

"Let him stay out of this, he's none of your concern." Mycroft said, trying to avoid the subject.

"No, I shan't. You see, we're both in the same boat. You love Craig, I love John and there's nothing we can do about it except wait. And wait. And wait. And-"

"He's called Greg."

"-wait. At least yours is gay. You have a chance, even if it is minimal."

"What do you mean by minimal?"

A smile crept on Sherlock's features. "Oh nothing, he just has a boyfriend, as you know." And the cake that is currently in your belly. You should really think about a diet. And carry it through this time.

* * *

"What. Why?"

"Because when we did **it**, well you know, I moaned somebody else's name and he noticed."

"Was it the first time?"

"Well, that's the point. It wasn't. He had caught me a few times before, but I was always able to save the situation. Not this time, though."

"I'm sorry for you man."

"No, it's alright. I can cope. It's just that I won't ever be able to reach him; the man of my dreams will literally _stay_ in my dreams. It's got nothing to do with Robin. "

"Him? Whose name was it then?"

"Do you know Sherlock's older brother?"

"Heavens, yes. Why?"

"That's him."

A silence filled the lines as John tried decide whether he should laugh or cry. He tried to stay neutral.

"Man, we're both in the same boat." he broke the silence.

"Why do you say that? You haven't got anything for Mycroft too, have you?"

"Lord no, it's just that I may- no, I do have feelings- for the other side of the Holmes brothers."

Now it was Lestrade's turn to decide. And he laughed.

**Author's note: Hooray! I'm back from the dead. Here goes another chapter, which I hope you all will enjoy very much. My holiday was better than the best, but I couldn't write a single word and that was horrible. I'm sorry for your long wait, I meant no bad. **

**My presence on will be just the same as before, so don't worry. Maybe I'll be able to publish the next chapter tomorrow, but I have to get back into every-day life and that will take up a little bit of my time. Sorry!**

**Thank you for all your support and care, you all are brilliant and beautiful human beings. **

**Lots of love -**_creamtea-with-a-madman_


	12. Chapter 12: Their last hours without

**Disclaimer: For the last time. I do not and will not under any circumstances own Sherlock, Moffat, the Cucumber, Gatiss, Martin or anyone else working on the set or realting to Sherlock. **

**Author's last notes: This is my last chapter and I am trying to find a way around posting it, because I am not yet ready to depart from this story. I had so much fun writing it and hope you had as much fun, if that is even possible. **

**By the time you will be reading this, I will be sad, but also a tad bit relieved. It'ts not just sweetie-pie to write a story, especially if you can't seem to find the time and there are tests going on as well. **

**Anyway, won't annoy you any further, I just hope that you enjoyed this little story. Thank you for all your support and kind words, I couldn't have written this without them. Again, thank you very much and enjoy!**

"Are you being serious?" Greg asked, "It would be a hell of a good joke if you weren't, as no one could ever fall in love with _the_ Sherlock Holmes...could they?"

"Yes, they could and they have." John answered, irritated.

"Oh, ahem, really? But you've got a point: he is a hottie, he is. Ain't nothing wrong with these cheekbones, I say."

"I'd say so too, but Mycroft? Really? Do his suits turn you on? Or do you just like the fat wobbling underneath them?"

"I may do. " Greg chuckled "I've just fallen in love with an idiot."

"The same for me, thanks."

* * *

"So what are we going to do?" Mycroft asked, trying to solve this problem like one of his brother's cases.

"We?"

"Yes, we. We're pretty much in the same, excuse me, fucked up situation."

"One isn't gay and the other taken, what chances do you think we have?" Sherlock questioned.

"Honestly? Not much. But something has to be done."

"Well, you may do something, but me? I have spoilt everything already."Sherlock sighed.

"No, I think there is still something... something I can't explain. Every time that the good doctor looks at you there's this passion, this want trapped inside his mind willing to escape."

"These are no facts, brother. Nothing to go on, it's just your poor deductions."

"Whose deductions do you call poor? Have you seen yourself?"

* * *

So, that's the plan. Lestrade would phone Sherlock to distract from John, who would be breaking and entering to get into the manor. If he simply rang the doorbell, he would never see the insides of the manor. Stubborn as Sherlock was, there was no other way. The detective would never let him in. He had to get around the gates.

In return John would help Greg to connect with Mycroft via Sherlock, if they ever talked again. If that wasn't the case they would find another way, eventually. Even if it was just Lestrade holding up a poster to one of Mycroft's cameras.

There goes nothing!

* * *

"Almost there." John whispered into his phone, trying to evoke as little attention as possible.

"Alright. Tell me when you are."

"Will only be a minute...There I am, could you-?"

"Yeah, cheers mate!" Greg said, turning off his phone.

Let's get down to business.

* * *

The mobile phone rang. Once again.

"Could you get that for me?" Sherlock sighed.

"This one time." Mycroft replied, not gracing the screen with one look.

"Mycroft Holmes, Holmes' manor. What could you _**possibly **_want from us at this late hour?" he spat into the phone.

"Oh, uhmm... it's me Lestrade, uh, sorry for interrupting you."

"Oh my- Lestrade, excuse me- I am-"  
"No, no, it's alright, don't you worry. Everything is fine."

"If you say so." Mycroft gulped. "How are things, ahem, going with your boyfriend? " Oh god, hopefully he didn't sound too much like a creep.

"Oh, not so very good. We split up." Greg said, trying not to sound as happy as he actually was.

"I'm sorry for you..." Mycroft said, doing exactly the same as the man one line above.

"Were did you, uh even know I had one?"

"Uhm, Sherlock told me a little bit about you." Lie. Mycroft didn't have his cameras for nothing.

"He did? That's very unlike the Sherlock I know."

"Uh, hehe, yeah." Mycroft forcefully laughed "He sometimes is not quite like himself."

"Could you two love-birds please take the conversation onto another level? Literally. I don't need a love-sick Mycroft, not really" Sherlock almost bellowed so Lestrade could hear each syllable.

A second later he shoved the suited, red-faced man out of the door. That's what you call Sherlock-matchmaking.

Mission accomplished.

He rubbed his hands merrily and followed his intuition to the window, taking out a cigarette to calm his poor nerves.

* * *

"Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes!" God, was the man deaf? John screamed his lunges out and what did his fellow genius? Stand there and light a cigar, which he should under no circumstances do! Ever!

"Sherlock Holmes, let your hair down!"

"Seriously John?" Sherlock asked, looking down at John who was standing in his mother's favourite roses. They deserved to be smashed. "What are you doing here anyway, breaking into my house?"

"I'm here to tell you something!"

"Oh, not that one again, you had your share of fun, get done with it."

"No, this is important. I wouldn't travel such a large distance for nothing, would I?"

"You're stupid, you would."

"Ugh, Sherlock, you're destroying my moment."John huffed. "As I said, I have to tell you something, something important. I meant it, all of it."

"I love you." He said earnestly.

"No kidding this time?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"There never was."

* * *

"So, uhhm- would you like to-?" Mycroft stammered awkwardly.

"Would I like to what?" Lestrade asked somewhat confusedly.

"To go out on a date-with me, I mean!?"

"With you?"

"Yes? Is that alright?"

" Yes, yes of course! For the world yes!"

"Yes?" Mycroft stuttered again, he couldn't quite wrap his head around it.

"Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes, you big dumbo!"

They couldn't believe it.

* * *

If your eyes were good you would be able to see a huge accumulation of extremities huddled together in one big ball on top of a bunch of roses.

If your eyes were even better you would see Sherlock and John, kissing in the gentle moonlight with no care in the world. This was their little place of happiness and they were going to make as much as possible out of it. You could see.

"My boyfriend- broke into my -house to confess- his love, you- crazy!" Sherlock said between kisses, smiling a smile that was only meant for John to see.

"Learned from the best."


End file.
